Page 73 of I Think I’m in Love with an Alien

It’s impossible not to sound a trifle melancholy. “True.”

There’s a small kiosk devoted to newsy facts regarding the start of Space Con. Jen lingers, silently reading all the related materials. For the next fifteen years, people came to ask questions and interview Deputy Banner about what he’d seen that night. In 1952, the pharmacy owner, Frank Ogden, decided to grant a discount to anyone who spoke the catchphrase “meet outer space fellows here in Rellows” in his store.

Jen laughs. “It doesn’t say what percent he offered, does it?”

I read the last few lines of the narrative. “‘Soon other merchants followed suit, promising out-of-this-world bargains. A summer sale focused on the anniversary of the crash date became a tradition, and tourism tripled in the fifties.’”

“Town planners suggested Space Con in 1977, leveling it up from a merchant-only sale, and started contacting entertainment agencies to add programming and appearances from minor celebrities,” Jen adds.

“It’s become quite a spectacle,” I say with full candor.

“Have you experienced anything like this before?”

“Not exactly like this.” While I have encountered beings who camouflage themselves for various reasons, it’s usually not a recreational pursuit. I add the next part in a quiet aside. “But I did vacation on a world that built its entire culture around trade.”

Jen’s eyes kindle with wonder, sparking gold in deep interest. “Will you tell me a little bit about the place? In the movie you watched.”

I realize she’s saying that so anyone who might be taking undue interest in our conversation will conclude that I’m describing a sight from an entertainment I viewed. She’s quite a clever human, allowing me to share without the need for secrecy. I could speak in great detail on the structures of Belacor, their craft guilds and the artisan hierarchy, but I suspect she’s more interested in the tactile description of the market itself.

“Yes. The bazaar is the size of a city, stalls draped in iridescent fabrics that shift color with your gaze. And the tech sector—there are no shelves. Gadgets float in artificial pockets of zero G, encased in golden force fields.”

“Oh wow, so they create energy-based display cases, basically.”

“The smells can be…overwhelming. Sweet, pungent, metallic, earthy… It really depends on who is visiting on any given day, but the diversity is astounding.”

“Sounds incredible.” Her tone is distant, as if she’s trying to build a mental image of the scene I describe.

“The more interesting part of Belacor is that goods aren’t simply purchased with currency, as occurs here.”

Jen tilts her head, a sign of renewed interest, if I’m reading her body language correctly. “Oh? How else do they buy things?”

“With exchanges of service, time, even memories or emotional attachment.”

“That’s fascinating. I love that, but the implications are rather haunting. Under hardship, you could sell feelings of love or precious memories to survive.”

“Beings do,” I say.

“It’s tough here, but we haven’t reached that point yet. Where to next?” she asks, seeming like she wants to move on from the weight of that topic.

“The ship, obviously.”

Jen finds a direct route, following a herd of other enthusiasts. I gaze at the centerpiece of the museum—a replica of the ship that allegedly crashed in Rellows long ago. It’s a pale imitation of functional technology, all sharp angles and garish lights. Standing before it, I ache because it’s an empty shell. It can’t carry me home or allow me to contact my family.

“Let’s look inside?” Jen offers her hand.

I take it, conscious that the lengths and shapes don’t interlock, and my additional digits wrap around hers in an awkward fashion. She doesn’t seem to notice. Others circle outside; I hear their voices. But inside, we’re alone, insulated by thin walls designed to mimic metal.

“Seeker?” she murmurs.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for trusting me.”

“Thank you for making me feel…” Like I have a place to belong. Finally.

That feels like too much, too soon. I remember how I thought of her before my family, and I cannot parse the implications. I cannot speak the words aloud or make myself vulnerable in this way. Not yet. She traces her fingers over mine, lightly, delicately, and the sensation is unexpectedly intense.

I find rare sanctuary in her company, and for a fleeting moment, I’m no longer a seeker—I’m found.